


dissolve the contours of her face into an amorphous figment

by rinnosgen



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, POV Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Season 2 episode 4, Sexual Content, Threesome - F/F/F, season 2 episode 7, slight breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinnosgen/pseuds/rinnosgen
Summary: You want to tell her things but her silhouette is already fading.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	dissolve the contours of her face into an amorphous figment

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [dissolve the contours of her face into an amorphous figment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183462) by [rinnosgen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinnosgen/pseuds/rinnosgen)



> I tried to write a mixture of how Villanelle felt in 204 and 207.  
> All errors are mine. Hope you enjoy reading it.

Sometimes you consider things; sometimes you don’t, because you’re trying to feel things.

You slam the door of the apartment, standing in the doorway, being kissed by a woman. She says her name is Tiffany, but you don’t think that’s a thing. Another woman, Marie, you suppose, is stripping you off your satin coat. Her arms circle your waist from behind, and her lips brush the nape of your neck.

“Bite me,” you murmur, because you’re trying to feel things.

You tug them, or they tug you, falling into the king size bed you’d claimed to be yours, which, however, was refuted by Eve.

“It’s not your bed, Villanelle. It belongs to MI6,” she once declared sourly.

“Why so harsh, Eve?” you stood up from the bed, treading towards Eve. “Do I not deserve anything related to you for a tiny single bit?”

You grab hold of the women, skin touches skin. The sheet is cold and the bodies are warm. You tell them to choke you rough because you’re trying to feel things.

“Tighter,” you gasp, “tighter and don’t let go of me.”

Someone’s nails have cut your shoulder blades and someone’s have scratched your back and yet you tell them to keep going.

Keep going, keep going, just like the orders Eve gave you the night when you were kneeling between her thighs, burying your head into her knees. You didn’t resist as she fucked up your decent looking bun, pulling, pressing, degrading.

“Yes,” she moaned, the hands in your hair clenched into fists. She’s never asked anything nicely, has she? But you don’t give a shit about Eve’s unconditionally fury, for this is how you communicate things. You deliver languages through your bodies.

You made Eve come in your mouth, even though you were dizzy and dreamy and you could barely breathe. But you wouldn’t hold back because that’s Eve. You feel things when you’re with Eve and you’re trying to feel things.

“We should stop doing it like this,” a few seconds later, Eve stopped your chin approaching her. You could feel the pain building up in your kneecaps.

“Like what, Eve?”

“Like there’s something,” your hands were shoved away from her laps as she rose.

“Why, Eve? Are you not feeling anything?” your eyes were boiling and blurring. Eve didn’t answer it. You knew Eve was too proud to admit it.

“Eve, do you even hate me?” still kneeling, you questioned her quietly, but the face, in an attitude of complete distance, didn’t bother to give you a hint.

She zipped her jeans and her jacket. She showed you her back. Then she started walking, leaving you weary and half naked, as if she was retreating from your whole being, in spite of all the things you both had been feeling keenly.

Hard palms push you back to the moment. Messy kisses drown you in the memory. You dive into the wetness on the mattress. Whose dewdrops are these? Whose? Are these yours? You’re so occupied that you can’t tell. You rock your fingers and your hips instinctively. You hear the women in harmony with your groan.

The coverlet is clammy and the fluids are heated. You have them come on your tongue, your mouth, your tits, your belly, your waist, your legs, your everything, because you’re trying to feel things. You come so hard between them two times, more than four times probably, almost fainting in the white waves.

Closing your eyes, you press your forehead against somebody’s bare chest that is soaking and sticky, while the women are gently stroking your head and face.

“Eve,” you mumble, despite yourself.

You want to tell her things but her silhouette is already fading.

“Why’re you looking so sad, darling?” one of the women trails her thumb over the corner of your eye.

“Because I cannot feel things,” you whisper, imaging you’re feeling things with Eve.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @lofihomo


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